Five Months, One Week, and a Day
by element90
Summary: Elliot makes an appearance after Olivia's ordeals.


The rain is lighter than this afternoon's downpour; she pulls on her hood as she steps out of the station house, content to linger along the city sidewalks tonight. A few drops hit her cheeks when she looks up at the sky, thunder rumbling long and low. It's a fairly warm night, but the rain isn't as much as she anticipated; she jerks her head back down, pulling the hood closer around her face.

"It's cold," says a familiar voice.

Olivia turns halfway, glances at Elliot for the first time. He gingerly pushes himself from the wall; jacket shiny from the rain, navy cap offering little protection. Her eyes immediately track downward to the black cane.

"Some people would call standing in the rain crazy," she replies, turning to face him fully now.

People sound different, on the phone and in person. He laughs a little inside. Olivia sounds like summer on the phone, thick and a bit lazy. But in person, she's autumn. Crisp and clear.

He likes both seasons equally.

To better see her, he comes to a crooked stop a few feet from her. "Some people are stupid. It's just rain."

His eyes automatically roam to calculate her physical well being. But she hides everything so well, wrapped in layers, securely veiled from the world.

Her hands drop into the pockets of her jacket. "You could've come inside."

Elliot expels a loud breath, holds out his free arm in a yeah-but-I'm-a-cowardly-idiot way, which Olivia accepts.

He nods to the sport utility vehicle parked behind her. "Really?" she asks, deadpan.

She waits for him to round the front bumper before sliding in the passenger seat. "Well. Your seats are soaked."

He gives her a serious look as he settles in behind the wheel. "This is a Jeep, Liv."

"Ah," she concedes, slightly rolling her eyes as he starts the engine, letting some warmth from the vents flood the interior.

He rubs his hands together, breathes into them as she watches. The bruises on his jaw and neck are still there, but faded. He flattens a palm against his right leg, winces the slightest. A web of small scratches covers his knuckles.

Her eyes drift upwards, to catch movement at his throat as he swallows, staring out past the raindrop speckled windshield.

Days ago he was lying in a hospital bed, comatose, teetering between life and death. She had guarded a row of uncomfortable chairs in the hallway outside his room, letting his wife and children cling to him, speak to him, pray and plead.

She had left only when he had awakened.

"Kathy told me you were there," he says as if reading her thoughts, "Thanks."

She almost replies with you're welcome, but the thin trace of sadness in his voice halts her.

Elliot sighs, looks out the driver's window, checks the side mirror, anything to not resort to blaming her for leaving as soon as he opened his damn eyes. Rather than be a dick, he keeps cool and rational for once.

He can't blame her. Fucking double standards.

Olivia tries to sort through all the fragments of information in her mind. Who's guilty? Who's wrong? My fault, yours. Should have, never did. Will someday. It's too much to process.

She suppresses a yawn into her sleeve. Endless exhaustion plagues her. She would sleep for weeks. If only.

"I'll take ya home," he says, putting the gear in drive. Of course she's tired. His leg may hurt like hell, but her whole being hurts like hell. He's a selfish little prick sometimes.

"No."

Elliot turns to her, confusion evident. She sighs, not wanting to go home. Not wanting him to know why, or maybe not caring. She doesn't have the strength to consider.

"Can we just, stay?"

It's warm, the rain sounds nice, and the street isn't so busy. She could fall asleep here.

Elliot returns it to park. Leans further into the back of his seat.

"So why were you hanging out in the rain tonight?" she asks, stretching her left leg, rolling her ankle, still sore from smacking it against the desk this morning for no apparent reason other than fucked up life causing her to be completely uncoordinated at times.

"Waiting for you," he says matter-of-factly.

Olivia's brow furrows, "Yeah, but why?"

"Why'd you leave the hospital like that?" He shrugs.

A game. They play them to the point of desiring nothing more than to stick a pen in an eye.

"Can you answer the question?" she replies, hint of bite-me-bastard in her tone.

Elliot pins her with his stare. She doesn't care.

"Can _you_?"

Her hand is on the door handle in an instant. And he's immediately following suit.

"Yeah, walk away, Liv," he calls out to her as he stumbles, hand resting on the hood for support in absence of his cane.

She spins on him, bewildered. "Why are you mad at me?"

He closes his eyes, shaking his head, drops of water flinging. "I'm not…I just..." He expels a loud breath. "I hate this."

This, everything. The strain, the time gone, the fucking fear of saying something.

Olivia's eyes fall closed as she steels herself against images and sounds she'd invested hours upon hours shoving into a locked box. God, she just wants to sleep. She's so tired.

"I feel like I haven't done anything right," he weakly admits. "Not with you."

In the beginning they didn't speak, not for her lack of trying.

A year later, they had exchanged texts. When it began to feel like an obligation, the exchanges stopped. Life went on, monotony and all.

Then she was taken and tortured. Horrific details played out on the evening news. And he called. Silence reigned supreme during that one. She was simply too drained to talk; he was too lost for words.

He called once before the trial. His voice soft and blurry like the liquor he had consumed. He had spoken to her like she was a normal person; asked her about her relationship, co-workers, politics and weather.

He even cracked a few jokes. And she laughed. She had slept more soundly that night than any other.

There was one more call after the trial. Words of comforting support. Words anyone would expect to hear from a friend, nothing more or less.

No call after the gun went off and the son-of-a-bitch's blood had slapped her in the face. No call. For five months, one week, and a day.

Maybe he hasn't done right by her, but at least it is something. To her, anyway. After years of learning to hold onto the smallest things, the only things he could give her, she is happy to have what little she receives.

But he feels it had never been enough. Perhaps he's not even capable of giving her anything good enough. It's a tall order.

"Elliot," she begins slowly, her shoulders rolling in a slight shrug. "You called me, helped me feel better. That's all I wanted."

His look of disappointment tells her he knows. It's infuriating to her, how naturally she can lie to him, yet so unconvincingly.

But she doesn't want to _tell_ him that she wanted him to save her.

The rain has stopped and she pushes back the hood, hands running through her hair, tucking it behind her ears.

Their eyes connect. And hold.

And hers betray her. She looks away, mentally curses herself, and makes threats against herself if she dares to let the tears form.

He wants to hug her. But they don't really do that. Besides, he's afraid it's more a selfish reassurance than gift of consolation.

Instead, he looks at the dark sky, hazy with unnatural light and fog; listens as tires cross wet pavement.

Olivia sighs quietly, steps off the curb to stand at the front bumper with him.

"Is the cane permanent?" she asks, breaking the silence with a soft voice.

Elliot glances to the front seat where it resides. "Doc doesn't think so." He chuckles under his breath. "Eli called me an old man."

"You are," she replies, small smile transforming to a slight smirk.

He nods.

Yawning behind her hand, Olivia, concedes sleepily, "Night, El…"

She steps onto the sidewalk again.

"Lemme drive you."

Turning to look at him, she waves him off, "I don't mind."

"C'mon, it's late, you're tired…" He's not quite ready to let her go. Hell, he never will be.

Olivia pauses, weighing her decision, and then moves back toward the passenger door.

Satisfied, Elliot hobbles to his side.

They don't speak. He drives with both hands on the wheel, a relaxed half peace upon his face.

Her head rests against the window.

And she sleeps.


End file.
